


The One Where Ray Meets Chandler

by WriteDragon (lightspire)



Category: Friends (TV), due South
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Crossover, Episode Related, M/M, Missing Scene, angst that gets resolved in Mountie on the Bounty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 22:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/WriteDragon
Summary: Summary: Two guys walk into a bar…. A missing story that takes place shortly before Mountie on the Bounty.





	The One Where Ray Meets Chandler

Ray sat on a battered wooden stool at a sports bar near the downtown conference center, nursing a beer and brooding. A Knicks vs. Bulls game was on the big TV, and the Bulls were winning. At least that was some comfort.

After that incident with the Russian spies, plus a whole bunch of other reasons, Ray was fed up with Fraser. For real this time.

The Mountie just plain didn’t trust him, not really. Every day he seemed to find a new way to drive Ray nuts. He didn’t share, didn’t listen, and to top it off, he made Ray feel completely incompetent. Sometimes Ray just wanted to knock that stupid hat off Fraser’s head and shake him until he actually shut up long enough to hear what he had to say. Partners meant sharing, and lately Fraser had been terrible at this partnership thing. Not buddies at all.

Ray loved Fraser as a friend and had a frankly annoying persistent crush on him, but he hated the way Fraser acted on the job — and he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to be partners with him much longer.

  _Ding!_

Ray’s gaydar went off, interrupting his navel-gazing. A young man ordered a beer and slid onto the only free seat at the packed bar, which happened to be right next to Ray’s. Ray’s intuition chimed again, a faint echo, a light tone somewhere in his gut.

The guy was dressed in a business suit — probably in town for a conference — and his fashion sense was even worse than Ray’s. The blazer was too big, his tie was too wide and too loud, and were those _pleated_ trousers? Dear lord — at least Ray knew how to rock a suit. But the guy was cute, a bean counter by the look of him, maybe late 20s or early 30s. He had short-cropped soft brown hair and a kind face, blue eyes, a tiny mole on his right cheek, and a faint five o’ clock shadow. There was something about him — something downright charming. He looked friendly enough, and more important, he appeared to be very much alone.

Ray rubbed his hand self-consciously across his own chin, feeling the stubble there. He hoped he still smelled ok; it had been about sixteen hours since his last shower and the bullpen had been busy that day. He breathed deeply and, not finding anything particularly offensive about himself, decided to make a play.

“How about those Bulls?” Ray said, his voice relaxed. Keep it light, keep it cool. “Think they’ll hold on to their winning streak?”

The man turned to look at him. He paused for a second, picked up an imaginary Magic Eight Ball fortune teller, pretended to shake it and said, “All signs point to Yes.” He shrugged, raised an eyebrow and added, “But I’m a sucker for punishment and an acolyte of the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.” He gestured towards the TV with his beer bottle and smiled a self-deprecating little smile, “So it’s the Knicks for me, every time.”

Sarcasm. That was good — it meant there was more to this guy than met the eye. He had a sense of humor. And he was smart, too — used fancy words like ‘acolyte’. Ray felt a little outclassed but he flashed a grin anyway.

“Loyalty. I can respect that,” Ray said, “lost causes, too. I know a thing or three about those.” He grabbed a handful of salted peanuts from the woven wooden bowl in front of him before pushing the dish towards the young man. “You like nuts?” Ray hoped he would pick up on the coded question, but he couldn’t tell yet. He’d know soon enough.

“I love nuts,” the guy said, tossing one into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Though sometimes they get stuck in my fillings. I hate it when that happens.”

Ray grinned even wider at that. “Yeah, me too. Love the nuts. So, Chandler Bing, what brings you to Chicago?”

Chandler startled and sat back on his bar stool, nearly spilling his beer. “How do you know my name?” He carefully set the bottle on a coaster. “I’m sorry, have we met?” 

“I’m a detective,” Ray said, slipping his hand into his own black leather jacket and showing the tiniest sliver of badge.“Off duty. Besides,” he said, pointing to the lanyard dangling from Chandler’s neck, “it’s on your name tag.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Sherlock. But you can call me Vecchio. Ray Vecchio.”

Chandler smirked, wiped his palm on his trouser leg, ran his fingers down his tie, and held his hand out for a quick shake.

“Nice to meet you, Detective Ray Vecchio. I’m Chandler. But you already knew that.”

Ray resisted making a crack about chandeliers or cherries or singers named Crosby. This guy had probably heard them all and then some. Besides, Stanley Kowalski knew how much it hurt to be teased because of your name. That definitely wasn’t the way to win friends and influence people, and, well, Chandler intrigued him.

The Bulls scored again and the bar erupted in cheers.

Chandler shook his head. “See? Story of my life.”

An ad came on the TV, the bar quieted down to a dull background roar, and Ray seized the chance to talk.

“So. Where’re you from? Your accent … it almost sounds Canadian.” Like Fraser’s, only more citified … Ottawa maybe? Ray couldn’t tell — Canada was still pretty much a big, red, Fraser-Thatcher-Turnbull flavored mystery to him. Ray sincerely hoped Chandler wasn’t Canadian, because, damn it, that would mean he had a _type_ — tall, dark, nerdy, blue-eyed, clean-cut, Canadian — and he sure as hell didn’t want to think about that right now. 

Chandler looked Ray over. Ray could tell the moment he decided to trust him — when he tilted his head, gave another little smile, and nodded.

“New York. I’m just in town for a few days,” he pointed to his conference tag, “but you already figured that out, too.”

“What kind of conference?”

“It’s for the launch of the new WENUS.”

Ray nearly choked on his drink. “The new _what_ now?”

Chandler waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. Financial data management software. Stands for Weekly Estimated Net Usage System.”

“Oh,” Ray said, feeling stupid and out of his depth. “Me and computers, we don’t really get along.” Unsure of what to say next, he asked, “So, do you like it? Working with computers, I mean?”

“I loathe it. Every day I ask myself, could it BE any more boring? Sometimes I wish I could do something else, but it’s all I know how to do.”

Ray nodded. He understood that feeling all too well.

The ad ended and the game started again. They watched for several minutes, commenting and cheering or cursing and groaning until Michael Jordan scored the winning points and the buzzer signaled the end of the game.

“Jordan totally _owned_ that court,” Ray said, slapping his hand down on the bar in triumph. Seeing Chandler’s defeated expression, he chucked him on the shoulder and said, “Sorry, man. Chicago’s my town.”

“Oh yes, I understand,” Chandler said. “Oakley’s good, but,” he lowered his chin, “I have to agree. Even I must bow to the king.” Chandler raised his beer towards Ray, offering a toast. “To ‘His Airness’.”

“His Airness,” Ray said. He clinked Chandler’s bottle, and took a drink.

“But don’t tell Joey I said that.”

“Oh?” Ray cocked an eyebrow, trying to look interested, but not _too_ interested. “Who’s Joey?”

“My roommate. He’d kill me for being a traitor to the almighty Knicks.”

Roommate. Hmm. Was this guy taken? Or was he up for a bit of after-game, well, game?

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Ray promised. “What happens in Chicago stays in Chicago, am I right?” Ray tested the waters, smiling.

“You got it,” Chandler said, grinning back.

“My lips are sealed.” Ray wondered briefly what they’d feel like sealed around Chandler’s tongue, and flicked his gaze to Chandler’s mouth. When he didn't react negatively or run away screaming, Ray pointed to Chandler’s beer. “Buy you another round as a consolation prize?”

“Actually, I’m starving,” he patted his stomach — “Missed dinner. On purpose. The hotel food sucks and I couldn’t stand to be around data people for another second.” Chandler finished his beer and put a crisp ten on the bar. “Hey, that reminds me, I’ve been dying to try some Chicago deep dish pizza. You know, to see if it lives up to all the hype. Know any good places to eat around here?”

Starving. Deep dish. _Right_. “As a matter of fact I do,” Ray licked his lips, “you, my friend, are in luck. There’s a place a couple blocks down the street. I'll take you there — could use a bite to eat myself.” The grin Ray flashed Chandler this time was positively wolfish.

Ray paid his bar tab and strutted towards the door, Chandler a step behind him. As they left the bar, Ray held the door for Chandler, who thanked him with a wave. They walked side by side, close but not too close, their strides easy and comfortable, as if they had known each other a lot longer than the duration of a basketball game. Ray could feel a little of the heat coming off Chandler’s body in the cool night air, heard the rustle of his clothes and the tread of his leather-soled shoes on the sidewalk as he moved.

Halfway to the restaurant, Ray slid a hand inside his jacket pocket, checking to be sure the foil pack with the rubber in it was still there. It was. Things were definitely starting to look up.

###

At Tony’s Pizza Palace, they ordered a large pie: half pepperoni, half Canadian bacon and pineapple. They split the bill and made their way to a corner booth, where Ray deliberately sat with his back to the windows. He was off duty, hiding from Fraser, trying to forget his troubles, and looking to score. If there was crime going down outside, he didn’t want to know about it. Not now.

A tiny, bouncy blonde waiter in a black and red uniform set down two chipped red plastic glasses, two white plastic plates, and a pitcher of ice water on their table. She disappeared for a few minutes, came back with their pizza, smiled a little too cheerfully at them, and left them alone.

Chandler politely took a bite of a slice with pineapple on it, but the rest of the time he stuck with the pepperoni. Which meant this relationship was doomed from the start; good thing Ray was only after a casual one-night stand.

“Good?” Ray asked.

Chandler nodded. “Delicious. Different. New York pizza is thin and the pieces are as big as your face, so you have to kind of fold them up and stuff it all in there.” He waggled his eyebrows and added, “And trust me, chicks totally dig that.”

Ray barked a laugh and imagined Chandler stuffing a large folded piece into his mouth. Then other large things in his mouth... Ray’s dick twitched, and he blushed and lowered his eyes before looking back at Chandler. Shit, it had been way too long. He really wanted to get out of here and hopefully get laid, and soon. He had work in the morning. With Fraser. Damn it.

With an effort of will, Ray erased the image of Fraser from his mind, finished his slice and grabbed a napkin. They were nearly done eating and he hadn’t gotten a Yes yet.

Chandler slowly licked his fingertips, one at a time. It was mesmerizing, and doing things to Ray that he definitely did want to explore further, but not in public. That’s when Ray noticed that the tip of Chandler’s right middle finger was missing. He tried not to stare but, too late, Chandler caught him.

“I lost a fight with a door in elementary school,” Chandler explained, then curled his hand into a fist, embarrassed.

“Ouch.” Way to kill the mood, Kowalski.

“Indeed. So. You from Chicago?” Chandler asked, quickly changing the subject.

“All my life,” Ray said, relief in his voice.

“Family?”

“I’m, uh, currently single,” Ray said, hoping his tone conveyed both, ‘We don’t want to talk about that’ along with, ‘Does this mean what I hope it means?’

“I hear you. Most of my relationships have lasted about as long as a Mentos. Minty fresh when you start out, but kind of bitter tasting in the end. Oh, and if they get anywhere near a Diet Coke, they explode like a Molotov cocktail.”

Ray laughed. Chandler was weird, but likable enough. He’d probably be fun in the sack. Ray just had to get him there. He was close, he could feel it.

“So, detective work, huh?” Chandler asked.

Ray wasn’t surprised that Chandler had changed the subject again. He may have been joking about failed relationships, but his face looked tense when he talked about it. Ray sensed a kindred spirit there, someone who had known loneliness, insecurity, rejection — it seemed they had a lot in common, under the surface.

“Yeah. I always wanted to help people. It’s all I know how to do,” Ray said, “except maybe fix cars.” He took another bite of pineapple pizza — so good — and added, “Sound familiar?”

Chandler nodded. “Though I could never do what you do. Me — If I'm staring down the barrel of a gun, I'm pretty much peeing on myself.”

Ray flashed back to that fateful day at the bank and did a double take, then shuddered, shaking off the memory.

“It can be terrifying, to be honest. But I do get a rush out of it, sometimes. You know, doing the right thing.”

“Mad respect, man. How do you do it?”

“We don’t work alone. I’ve got a partner,” … _for_ _now_.

They talked for a while about colleagues, partners, work ... and Ray let it slip, a little, how Fraser had been a real asshat lately.

“He did that? That’s totally not cool, man. If my partner withheld important information that could, you know, _get me killed_ , I’d be pissed off too.”

“Right? He makes me wanna kick him in the head sometimes.” All the time, truth be told.

###

After dinner, Ray offered to walk Chandler to his hotel. Time to seal the deal.

“It’s not the best neighborhood,” Ray said, which wasn’t exactly true, but Chandler didn’t know that. “How about I give you a police escort?”

“Ah, no, I’ll call a cab.”

“It’s no trouble, really — it’s only a few blocks that way, but seriously, this time of night it’s best not to walk alone.”

“Ok then, if you’re sure.”

They made their way to Chandler’s hotel, not saying much. Ray was alert for trouble but also enjoying the company of someone who actually listened to him for a change. 

“You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?” Chandler asked, breaking the silence. “I keep trying to quit but some days are just … long, you know?”

“Had to give it up for an undercover job,” Ray said. He didn’t mention that it was this job, of course. “Gum?” He offered Chandler a silver-wrapped stick of spearmint.

“Well, actually, gum would be perfection,” Chandler said. He took the gum, not commenting when Ray’s fingertips lingered a second longer than was strictly necessary, then smacked himself on the forehead. “Sorry, that sounded dumb.”

That, too, was nice — being with a guy who said stupid stuff and wasn’t too proud to admit it — a breath of fresh air, minty as the scent of the gum Ray had given him.

“Don’t worry about it. I say dumb stuff all the time.” Ray smiled again at Chandler, who smiled back.

When they reached the hotel, pausing in the shadows just outside the shafts of light streaming through the glass front doors, Ray made his move. He placed a hand on Chandler’s upper arm, caressed his bicep lightly, and looked into his eyes.

“So. You want me to come up?”

Chandler looked at Ray’s hand on his arm and swallowed, realization dawning. He jerked his upper body backwards and said, “No!” too loudly, before he could stop himself.

Ray felt his face go ashen, horrified. “Jesus. Sorry man. I, um, I thought …,” he waved a couple fingers in the air helplessly.

Chandler held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, wait. It’s probably my fault — it usually is. I’m sorry if I misled you. Don’t get me wrong — I like you a lot. Just not in that way. I’m not prejudiced or anything,” he was babbling now, “I’m OK with it — my Dad is, after all… ” Chandler scratched his cheek nervously. “In fact if I were a guy … wait, did I just say that?”

“No, sorry, sorry, it’s my bad,” Ray pointed to himself. “You just seemed — you know …” Ray’s voice trailed off. How could his instincts have failed him so completely? All the signs were there.

“I know, I know,” Chandler shrugged his shoulders in a ‘What you gonna do?’ gesture. “I have a ‘quality’. Everyone says that. It’s all right. Honestly, I’m flattered. And I’m sure whoever you do end up with will be lucky to have you.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.” Chandler gestured towards him. “You’re a Brian from payroll.”

Ray just stared. What the hell was a Brian from payroll? 

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Chandler said, pointing his thumb towards the hotel lobby doors and backing away. “It was good meeting you, Detective. Ray.”

“You too Chandler,” Ray said wistfully, and raised his palm in a goodbye half-wave. Chandler nodded, turned, and went inside the hotel. Ray watched him go. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn it all to Hell. 

Ray turned to walk back to where his unmarked squad car was parked by the bar, his footsteps heavy with shame, anger, and unresolved sexual tension, and thought about what Chandler had said.

He thought about how Fraser really was being an asshole with no sign of changing anytime soon, if ever. Sure, they were good at catching criminals, but Butch Cassidy and Sundance, they weren’t. He’d given Fraser plenty of chances. He wasn’t sure if he could give any more. One more time of making Ray feel stupid, one more denial of Ray’s instincts, one more betrayal of trust — well, he might just end up punching Fraser and be done with the whole thing.

Behind him, unseen, Chandler looked out the glass hotel doors, poised to run as though he were about to chase after Ray. He hesitated, shook his head, and the moment was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Actor/Producer Matthew Perry is, in fact, from Ottawa, and has dual Canadian-American citizenship. 
> 
> A “Brian, from payroll” is a classy, gorgeous, gay man whom everyone says is out of Chandler’s league, but Chandler could totally get a Brian (Friends, S1, E8).
> 
> Written for the “Fanfic 100 challenge, prompt #21: Friends,” for the ds_flashfiction community on Dreamwidth.


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